


Solitary Man

by Shinybug



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Episode Related, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-17
Updated: 2011-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:10:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shinybug/pseuds/Shinybug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Second chances and dark horses. (Vegas AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solitary Man

*~*~*~*

He opened his eyes to a white so bright and heavy it felt tangible, a pressing weight on his chest. Slowly the sharp scent of antiseptics permeated his senses, burning his nostrils as he struggled to breathe through the pressure on his lungs, and he knew where he was. God knew he'd been there plenty of times before. He closed his eyes again and waited for inevitable rush of pain, which came, and the clearing of his head, which didn't.

"Detective," a voice said nearby, a voice he recognized vaguely and with some strange sense of trepidation.

"I quit," John mumbled through parched lips, his own voice cracking a little.

"I know," the other man replied dryly.

John opened his eyes again with more success this time, focusing on Dr. McKay's face still haloed unnaturally in fluorescent light. McKay looked much as he'd seen him last by the airstrip, eyes grave and searching, far too knowledgeable for comfort. John remembered how his features had wavered in the heat, and they wavered now as well except this time it was through the lingering haze of what John assumed was morphine. "I thought I was dead."

"You were dead," McKay said, and sighed heavily, sinking back into the chair he'd pulled up to John's hospital bedside. John watched him scrub a hand over his face and through his short, carefully combed hair, leaving it curiously fluffed, some of his crisp professionalism disappearing under what seemed to be relief. "For a few minutes, anyway. You had lost most of your blood by the time the paramedics found you. The bullets nicked a few arteries but luckily no major organs. You've been unconscious for two days now, receiving multiple transfusions."

"Cool," John said, reaching for the plastic cup of water on his nearby tray, then hissing as his IV line tugged at the back of his hand where it was attached.

"You would think it was cool, wouldn't you," McKay grumbled sharply, grabbing the cup and shoving it into John's hand. A little bit of water sloshed over the rim and onto John's hospital gown, cold and startling.

"I feel like we know each other," John said, sipping the water slowly, letting it soak his mouth until he didn't feel so much like dessicated roadkill.

McKay fixed him with a hard, suspicious look. "We do know each other, Detective."

John made a face that clearly said 'don't be a dumbass'. "I meant, from the moment we met. I knew you. And just call me John."

McKay nodded and swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "I have a theory about that," he began.

"If it has anything to do with wormholes and alternate realities and aliens, save it until I'm off the good drugs."

"Not so much about the aliens," McKay hedged, then shut his mouth tightly. "You're an absolute idiot, you know that?"

"Thanks, Doctor. Your bedside manner is fantastic." John reached out his hand to put the cup down and McKay automatically took it from him, more gently than when he'd handed it over, and completely at odds with the scathing edge in his voice.

"You weren't supposed to engage the Wraith, you had no backup. What did you think was going to happen? Were you _trying_ to get yourself killed?"

John supposed he should have made some sort of reply immediately, because when several beats went by in silence McKay's eyes got wide and his mouth turned down at the corners, twisting bitterly. John opened his mouth to deny it but it was already too late, the damage was done.

"Of course you were," was all McKay said, and his eyes shuttered like window blinds, hiding whatever was vulnerable behind them. John frowned, seeing the vivid blue in them dim, not having noticed until that moment just how very blue they were.

"Did you--" John cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably and stifling gasps of pain at the movement. McKay watched him silently. "Did you get there in time to stop whatever he--it--was doing?"

McKay took a deep breath. "Yes, mostly. Like I suspected, he was trying to transmit Earth's coordinates, but we were able to destroy his equipment before the signal made it as far as the Pegasus Galaxy."

"I guess that's far away?"

"Yes, just a bit," McKay replied with the deepest sarcasm possible.

"So crisis averted? The day was saved?"

"For us, yes."

John tried out a smirk and mostly succeeded. "Then I guess it was all worth it, wasn't it? Wait, what do you mean, 'for us'?"

McKay looked grim. "The transmission ripped a hole between dimensions, sending the signal into an infinite number of other realities, possibly all the way to Pegasus and the Wraith hive ships. We're safe for now, but there's no way of knowing how many other Earths are in trouble right now, and they don't even know it."

John processed that for a minute, still unaccustomed to wrapping his brain around the science fiction that came out of McKay's mouth. "Is there anything we can do to help these other realities? At least warn them?"

"Essentially...no." McKay looked resigned, and John could tell that helpless was not a comfortable or familiar feeling for the scientist.

"I refuse to be responsible for what happens in any reality that I'm not in," John stated stubbornly.

"I never said you were," McKay said flatly.

"And neither are you," John added.

"That doesn't make it any easier."

It really didn't, John realized, surprised and smarting from the bittersweet knowledge that burrowed itself into his gut beside his gunshot wounds. He rested his head back on the pillow, closing his eyes against the pain and exhaustion that somehow felt harder to stave off now.

"Look, what I really meant to say was, thank you," McKay said in a low, roughened voice, as though he was pulling the words out of some place inside him that rarely saw any use. "Without you and your incredibly irritating suicidal tendencies, we would be in a world of hurt right now." Abruptly McKay reached out and took John's hand in his, squeezing gently and carefully, avoiding IV lines.

John swallowed hard and met McKay's eyes, noting the sudden depth of blue again, the naked emotion there, and John wondered if McKay knew just how much of himself he betrayed with his eyes, despite his obvious acid bravado. It had been a long, long time since someone had looked at John like that, had let him see into their inner workings, however briefly. It had been a long time since anyone had trusted him enough to tie his own shoes in the dark, and here McKay had placed the truth of the universe in his hands without so much as a 'nice to meet you.' Surprisingly, it hurt, like a bullet lodged against bone.

"I think I need a shot of something," John mumbled, pulling his hand away as casually as he could and pressing the call button on the arm of the bed. McKay looked away, but not soon enough for John not to see the flash of hurt replaced with something hollow and bitter. John turned his head on the pillow to look out the window at the bright Las Vegas sunlight, the vast blue sky.

"Well, I'll let you get some rest," McKay said, too loudly, stiffly professional again. "You'll be hearing from us soon."

"Great," John muttered, gaze fixed on the blue sky that used to be his refuge. He didn't turn his head to see if McKay's face still carried that look, telling himself that it didn't matter, and lying. He heard the door to his room swing open, heard the sounds of doctors being called on the intercom system, the roll of gurney wheels past the doorway, the squeak of rubber soles. "Dr. McKay," he called out without meaning to.

There was no response, but the door didn't close either, so John took a deep breath. "I wasn't trying to kill myself. I just didn't have any reason not to die."

"You do now," came the soft reply, and then a nurse was at his side checking his vitals and administering another shot of morphine. When John rolled his head back toward the door, already swimming through blue sky in his mind, McKay was gone, and it was only then that John thought to ask what that reason might be.

*~*~*~*

True to his word, McKay showed up at John's apartment a week later, one day after John had been released from the hospital and before he had been able to figure out how to move house well enough that the government couldn't find him. John opened the door awkwardly with one hand, his left arm strapped snugly to his chest, to find the scientist on his doorstep looking very different than he had the last time he'd seen him. McKay had abandoned his tailored suit for dark-washed jeans and a gray t-shirt, looking unassuming and deceptively casual with one hand shoved into his pocket. John knew, the same way he had instinctively known how many G's he could handle before he had to pull out of a spin, that if he let McKay into his house he didn't stand a chance in hell of escaping whatever destiny that Wraith had seen for him.

He gripped the door frame for a long moment, knuckles whitening, while McKay stood silent, taking his measure. Then he abruptly released the wood and stepped back, flexing his hand around the air so as not to reach out for McKay. Whether the impulse was to shove him away or pull forward, John couldn't be sure.

McKay came in with a small smile on his face, only a little smug. He moved past John, closer than was strictly polite, lingering in his personal space in a way that made John take a few deep breaths to find calm.

"John," he said, taking a seat on the sagging couch uninvited. "You look better."

"So do you," John replied without thinking, shutting the door and feeling like a total moron.

McKay snorted. "Yes, well. It's amazing what a few good nights of sleep can do for the complexion."

"What can I do for you, Doctor?" John asked, trying for patience and ignoring the creeping ache in his chest from his wound. He shifted on his feet, unwilling to make this any easier by sitting down like a civilized person.

"I'll take a beer, thanks," McKay said as though John had offered.

John sighed and grabbed two bottles of Sam Adams from the refrigerator one handed, bringing them back the the living room and shoving one in McKay's direction. A moment later he found himself thwarted by the lack of his other hand, and McKay had to open his beer for him with a smirk. McKay's eyes were deeply blue today, no hint of the exhaustion or guilt or other complex emotion that had clouded them before, and John found himself thinking of flying, looking at McKay.

"I forgot how much I actually like the desert," McKay said conversationally, pausing to take a pull of his beer. "Atlantis is a floating city on a planet covered primarily by water. There's the mainland, of course, but I hardly ever get to see it, and it's made of of dense forest mostly. Although the ocean has its own beauty, and I find myself unable to sleep as well without the sound of the waves, there is still something about this unbelievable heat here. And the air is so dry you could light a match on it. That really shouldn't be appealing, but it is."

Despite his resolve not to get any more involved than he already was, John couldn't help but form a picture in his mind of a floating city amidst so much blue, both above and below. And how much sky there must be, unspoiled by pollution or air traffic, how very clean and open, inviting. He bit his tongue on his questions and drank his beer.

McKay, watching him intently, sighed. "You're not going to make this easy for me, are you?"

John shook his head wryly, but sat down on the other end of the couch all the same, putting his feet up on the battered coffee table in an attempt to seem unruffled. One glance at McKay told him he was failing.

McKay sighed again, set his beer down, then worked his hand into his jeans pocket to pull out a small silvery blue egg. John blinked at him. McKay grinned and held it out, and kept holding it until John finally set his beer down and took it from him.

"What is it?" John asked, curious in spite of himself. It was flat on the bottom, designed perhaps to stand up like an egg in a carton, and curiously heavy for its size.

"You tell me, John," McKay said, slightly breathless. "Think about it turning on, think about its function."

"I don't know what its function is," John retorted, frustrated, gripping the little egg in his fist.

McKay reached out and cupped his palm around John's, warm and sure. John took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"Just think 'On'," McKay prompted softly, and John looked up into his eyes, and it was that easy in the end. The surface of the egg began to glow, a little at first and then over the entire surface, colors mingling and spreading and changing as a a low hum of music began to fill the room with little tendrils of sound.

"Oh," John said, still holding the gaze, unable to look away from the crinkles at the corners of McKay's eyes. If anyone had asked him to wager on it, he'd have said that the odds against McKay being able to smile that brightly, with that much naked hope, were astronomical. But then, John admitted ruefully to himself, that was why he had tens of thousands of dollars on the books with Mikey. He had no talent for gambling on dark horses.

"So...it's an IPod for aliens?"

McKay snorted, but didn't lose the smile. "As far as we've been able to tell, it's a portable sound system that responds to the moods of the people in the room."

"So it's a psychic IPod for aliens."

"Yes, fine, it's a psychic IPod for aliens, are you happy? We came across a mention of it in our Ancient database, but it refused to turn on for any of our expedition members who have the ATA gene. I suspected it might work for you, and I was correct."

John's eyes glazed over a little as McKay explained the ATA gene in all its glory, doing his best to follow along and wondering, not for the first time, when he had fallen down the rabbit hole. "So why did you think I might have the gene?"

McKay took the egg carefully from John's hand and placed it gently on the coffee table between an old pizza box and a well-thumbed edition of _War and Peace_ , where it hummed softly a sort of expectant tune that hovered in the air. "When we accidentally opened the rift between dimensions I met another version of you, like I told you before. That John Sheppard was indispensable to the Atlantis expedition, not only as their military commander and team leader, but because the ATA gene ran stronger in him than in any other human we'd ever tested. They told me he stepped into the city and it woke up for him, lights and systems responding to him like he was one of the original inhabitants of the city, an Ancient. My God, I thought at the time, how much easier would that have been for us, if we had had our very own John Sheppard from the beginning. You're like the Holy Grail to Atlantis' Camelot."

John nodded, standing abruptly and walking to the window, staring out but seeing nothing. A tick was beginning in his jaw. "Just tell me what you came to say and get it over with, McKay."

McKay stood, taking a few steps toward him. "We want you to come to Atlantis. To join the expedition." His words sounded oddly light, no force of air behind them as though he was afraid to breathe. "You can sign on as a civilian contractor, like me, and you won't have to take orders from the military."

"No."

McKay made an incredulous noise behind him. "No? That's it, just no? I need an explanation, you owe me that much."

"I don't owe you a goddamn thing, McKay," John growled, more fiercely than he'd meant to.

"I told you everything, I trusted you when you didn't even have security clearance because I knew you could handle it. I took a chance on you. You owe me."

John half-turned, throwing an angry glare over his shoulder and wishing his arm wasn't in a sling. "I won't be anyone's glorified light switch. Not even yours."

McKay sounded strangled. "Is that what you think? What are you so afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid of anything," he shot back, beyond caring that he sounded like a petulant child. "I know my life is shit, but it's mine and I don't relish the idea of spending it turning stuff on and off for you like an automaton in another galaxy. I'd rather dig my own grave here."

Blue eyes burned into his like brands. "I'm offering you a place on my team. A chance to make a difference on the front lines again, to keep saving the world like you did last week, over and over again with your courage and your strength and your unbelievable stupidity like I know you can do. And yes, to turn stuff on, because between Earth and the Wraith stands Atlantis, a city with unlimited potential that's only half-awake right now, waiting for someone like you to take a chance on her."

John shook his head, feeling his skin prickle hot and cold. "You keep talking about me like I'm the other John Sheppard you met, but I'm not. One instant and your life goes a different direction, you told me that. I'm not the hero you think I am."

"Yeah? So what was that in the desert?"

"Self-serving recklessness."

McKay's mouth twisted, but there was something in his eyes that John didn't like, that said McKay had an Ace card hidden somewhere unexpected. "I know it wasn't that at all. What happened to that bag of money, John? The one from the Wraith's hotel room?"

John shifted on his feet, feeling trapped and looking for the metaphorical exit.

"You were running, John, I know you were, but something made you turn the car around and go back. You didn't have to do that. If you didn't give a damn what happens to anyone else you would have kept on driving when you saw that trailer. You didn't have to engage the Wraith either. You could have waited for backup from a safe distance if you'd wanted to, and walked away afterward." McKay stepped right up into his space again, flinching a little at whatever he saw in John's face but standing his ground nonetheless and wrapping a large hand around John's unbandaged bicep. "I know it because I know you, because the reason you went back is the same reason I get up every day and try one more time to make sense of the universe and keep people safe."

John could see the flutter of McKay's pulse in his throat, could smell the clean scent of his soap and his sweat mingled. In the background the psychic IPod egg was throbbing out a low beat in time to McKay's heart, and McKay looked so appallingly earnest that John had to clamp down on the urge to shake him until he stopped looking at him that way. "I'm not him," he repeated, having run out of protests but clinging to the only one that really mattered.

McKay nodded slowly. "I know. But you could be. I can see it in you, John, even if you can't see it in yourself. I know you. I think that somehow who we are bleeds across realities, that we're linked to the other versions of ourselves and that our destinies revolve around the same central point in every dimension. It's soft science, but my gut tells me I'm right. I think the only difference, fundamentally, between you and him and all the others, is how you get to that point."

"Destiny."

McKay's grip on his arm tightened. "You can still get there, John. It's not over for you yet. If it was, you would have died in the desert in spite of all our attempts to revive you."

John took a shuddering breath, feeling things go slightly gray at the edges of his vision. He leaned heavily against the window, letting the heat press against him from the other side of the glass. "I never would have pegged you for a fatalist, McKay."

"Yeah, me either," McKay agreed with a crooked smile. "It's a funny universe that way." He stepped between John's braced legs, the hand on his arm shifting from gripping to soothing in the space between heartbeats.

John's breath caught in his chest. "I've been alone a long time, McKay. I don't think I've got anything left to give your city," he argued softly, an empty threat.

Then McKay leaned up and kissed him, mouth slightly open and wet and to the point, self-assured and certain of how he would be received in a way that pissed John off for a brief moment, in which he wondered if this was supposed to be destiny too. And then he found that it didn't matter because McKay tasted so familiar and so sweet, like the way blueberries still reminded John of the freedom of childhood, that John kissed him back. He thrust his tongue out to meet McKay's and let that taste spread through him the same way the berries had stained his mouth blue like the sky he loved so much. McKay groaned and pushed his hands into John's hair, clutching at him and pulling, manipulating John into position, and John huffed a breath against McKay's mouth, not surprised at the dominance but surprised that he enjoyed it as much as he did.

He felt McKay's erection pressing like iron against his thigh and ground up against it, coaxing a rough sound from McKay and an answering shift of hips. John realized belatedly that he was hard too, and wondered if he'd been hard the whole time since McKay had strode through the door, all self-assured and acting like he'd never heard of personal space or a solitary lifestyle or letting a man spiral down to destruction in peace. Growling and cursing his strapped arm, he managed to spin them around and get McKay up against the wall. He pinned him there with his good arm and kissed him until he tasted blood, wanting to banish the memory of blueberries and clear skies and model airplanes flown in the clutch of his own small fingers, of dreams long put to rest.

And when he failed to forget those things, still he kissed McKay, only softer now and weak with defeat, aware of the startled tremble of McKay's lips and hands, the desire that made his heart pound with fear. The sound of his belt being unbuckled, the muffled rasp of zippers, of denim hitting the floor made John's cock leap in McKay's hands. There was a blur of sensation and then McKay's mouth was on his cock, sucking him down deep and fast. John cried out and braced his good hand against the wall, trying not to thrust into McKay's throat, seeing stars as McKay swirled his tongue around the head and traced the leaking slit. McKay opened his eyes and looked up at John, eyes warm and desperate, and John had no choice but to think that McKay might be right about destinies, that maybe they knew each other so well because they had always known each other like this, somewhere.

McKay pulled off with an obscene pop that did things to John's insides and made him gasp in denial, reaching to pull him back down and finish. It had been so long since he'd been touched like this, been able to touch, so long since he'd allowed himself to acknowledge the real direction of his desires, that something died a little in him when McKay stepped away. But then McKay was pulling off his own shirt and shucking his jeans, and John's knees weakened at the sight of all that skin so close to his mouth and hands, the heavy cock curving toward him, beckoning.

"Hold still," McKay ordered, leaning in to press his mouth to the curve behind John's jaw, tasting the skin there and breathing against him while he gently unbuckled John's sling and freed his arm enough to unbutton his shirt and push it down his shoulders and off to the ground. John held his arm against his body and swayed when McKay brushed careful fingers down his chest and ribs, avoiding bandages and bruises like navigating a minefield, mapping John's body with fingers that were reverent and honest. John's head tipped forward and he rested his mouth against McKay's shoulder, tasting salt and the sweetness of summer. If he had tried to imagine what it would be like between them, and he hadn't, he wouldn't have guessed there would be tenderness, or a fragile intimacy that reminded John of high atmosphere, starved of oxygen.

McKay maneuvered him around, leaning against the back of the couch and pulling John into the open vee of his splayed thighs, unexpectedly muscular and heavy. "Like this," he whispered, aligning their cocks and taking them in one big hand, wrapping the other around the back of John's neck. He began to jack them both in a slow rhythm that had John panting, and the twinges of pain from his healing wounds perversely heightened the pleasure, providing a contrast. John held onto McKay's shoulder with his good hand, for once letting someone else lead, trusting that he'd get there alright even if he wasn't at the controls. He rested his forehead against McKay's and relaxed into the slow build, the meshing of breaths and the sync of heartbeats, terrified and hopeful.

It was a little like dying again, John thought, recalling the sense of ironic calm he had felt lying in the desert heat surrounded by flaming wreckage, the feeling that something greater than him was taking over, was accepting of him, the release of control finally after so long. When he came into McKay's fist he cried out sharply, and McKay held him up with strong arms, whispering words in a language John didn't understand, but which sounded soothing nonetheless. McKay finished himself off a minute later, hot breath gusting against John's mouth as he angled around a kiss that never came.

Later, after McKay had cleaned them both off and found the bedroom and John had collapsed in a sprawl across the bed beside him, John found the ability to speak again. They lay barely touching, letting the sweat dry and waiting for the awkwardness to set in, which didn't happen. "Something you said," John began, embarrassed by the rasp in his voice. "Were you there, in the desert?"

McKay nodded, twitching his hand out to touch John's naked thigh with his fingertips. "Yeah," he replied softly. "I rode out with the paramedics. We didn't know if you had been injured or not, you weren't answering your phone, and then we found you. You were just lying there, so still. I thought you were dead already, you weren't breathing. I put pressure on your wound, this one here," he said, rolling on his side to touch the bandage over John's heart, "while they worked to revive you. I thought we were too late, even until you woke up days later. I thought we were too late."

John watched him quietly, wondering at the cycles of his life, searching for a way to feel worthy of such obvious devotion, unasked for. "Thanks," he said, knowing it was wretchedly inadequate.

McKay looked like he was biting down on something he wanted to say, chewing on his lower lip, which was already reddened and swollen, distracting. Finally he blurted, "Look, we have small spacecraft, you know. We call them Gateships, they're little but they can hold several people and their maneuverability is fantastic after I made a few modifications. We don't have many skilled pilots though, because the ATA gene is required to operate them, so--"

John interrupted his rush of words with an irritated gesture of his hand, repressing a grin and feeling his chest swell with the promise of flight. "Shut up, McKay, I already decided I would go."

McKay's smile was incandescent, and the little egg in the living room hummed a pleased tune, colors flashing so brightly that John could see them down the hall. "Thank god, because that was all I had left. I was really hoping not to have to resort to hypnotism or kidnapping. No, I'm kidding. Mostly."

"I'm sure you were," John said, not at all sure but willing to give it his best shot anyway. "You're talking a lot."

"I know, I do that when I'm nervous or excited, it's a flaw I have, one of the only ones though, so I feel pretty good about it."

John sighed and levered himself up carefully on his good arm, fixing McKay with a look until he shut his mouth with a click. John leaned over slowly and dropped his mouth on McKay's, letting the moment unwind until McKay was calm beneath him, responding with quiet determination and humbling focus.

"You could call me Rodney," he said when John pulled away a fraction of an inch to breathe. "My friends call me Rodney. At least, the people who would be my friends if I...had any."

He looked suddenly vulnerable, walls crumbled down and eyes as blue as anything John had ever seen, and John recognized something of himself there, something solitary that perhaps no longer needed to be. "Rodney," he drawled, enjoying the way McKay shivered at the sound, "when you said I had a reason not to die, did you mean this?" He punctuated his question by placing his palm over McKay's heart and sliding slowly down his abdomen.

"Mmm, no, not exactly," McKay said, pulse coming quicker, mouth twisting with irony. "But it's a pretty good start, don't you think?"

John considered for a moment, his resting hand rising and falling with McKay's breaths, thinking about dark horses. "Yeah," agreed. "It is."

~end~

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: I always thought Detective Sheppard got the raw end of the deal. I decided to AU the AU so he got a better ending. Alexia looked at this and told me it didn't suck. Which is good, because it's her fault that I wrote it, and I wrote it for her. She says I can blame any mistakes on her, but I was planning to anyway, just like I do everything else.


End file.
